


but it is my knife and my heart too

by heartofstanding



Series: Henry IV and Fatherhood [4]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: (isn't it?), Attempted Filicide, Bad Parenting, Death Wish, Dysfunctional Family, Everything is terrible, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Heavy Angst, Paranoia, Plantagenets' A+ Parenting, Trust Issues, but it's all uphill from here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24055540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Henry's son has come to London, seeking a reckoning with his father over rumours he would usurp the throne.
Relationships: Henry IV of England & Henry V of England
Series: Henry IV and Fatherhood [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1335964
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	but it is my knife and my heart too

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on an event that I like to call “Hal’s dagger incident” that’s recounted in _The First English Life of Henry the Fifth_ (1513). This event can’t be traced back to any of _First English Life_ ’s known sources unless it comes from the “report” of James Butler, Earl of Ormond (1392-1452) (exactly how this report came to the author of _First English Life_ is unknown). Some historians doubt this incident ever happened because _First English Life_ , containing the first surviving account of this story, was written a hundred years after Henry IV’s death while other historians treat it as potentially viable because it “fits” with known events and the details are very specific. Whether or not it really happened, the sweet, sweet angst potential was reason enough for me to write an adaptation of it. 
> 
> You can read a transcription of _The First English Life of Henry the Fifth_ , edited by C. L. Kingsford, [here](https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/008731495). The full text has never been published in modernised English but A. R. Meyers’ _English Historical Documents: 1327-1485_ contains a modernised extract of Hal’s dagger incident.
> 
> More detailed historical notes can be found in the end notes.

**Westminster, July 1412**

Henry doesn’t want to see Harry but it doesn’t matter: Harry is here. He has come to London with a large following, taken up lodgings with the Bishop of Durham and it doesn’t matter that Harry claims he doesn’t have a _murderous desire_ for the throne and the stories he does are merely evil rumours sown by _sons of iniquity_ who want him disgraced, Henry is afraid.

He sits in his room and watches the faces of his attendants and guards. Tries to remember if he trusts them, if they can be trusted, if he can trust anybody. Once, men flocked to his banner and to his name because of who he was but they no longer do and money guarantees many things but the loyalty it buys is weak. Ambition and pride cloak every man and woman Henry speaks to and he has come to distrust all but a handful. Even the most loyal of his sons cannot be wholly trusted.

As for his least loyal son – what can Henry do but watch Harry as a rabbit watches a wolf, waiting for it to strike?

Henry has been told so many things about Harry. He has been told that his son is stirring up discontent and building up his own army to pull the crown down from Henry’s head and set it on his own. That Harry has disrupted and sneered at the expedition to Gascony led by his own brother. That he is plotting and planning, making deals for a time when he is called _king._

But it doesn’t matter what Henry has been told. He has found that when Harry is not with him, Harry becomes a construct other men’s desires and sins and not himself. His flesh is pliable, weak – Henry had the impression that whoever set their hands on Harry’s shoulders would feel their fingers sink deep into clay-like flesh and then would mould Harry into whatever they wanted him to be.

*

‘Father,’ Thomas says.

As always, Henry’s heart lifts to see Thomas standing before him. He’s grown into the man Henry always thought he would – fearless and bold, a terror on the lists, broad-shouldered and strong. He’s not as tall Henry expected he would be but it’s a minor failing.

‘Come sit,’ Henry says. ‘We can go over the plans for the Gascony expedition.’

‘Harry’s here.’

Henry studies his lap: the stretch of deep green velvet over his knees, his hands holding each other, inflamed and marred by scabs and sores, and, heavy on his finger, the gold signet ring.

‘That scarcely matters,’ Henry says. ‘The expedition is more important.’

‘I know,’ Thomas says, pulling a face that suggests he’s not entirely convinced. ‘You will talk to him, won’t you?’

Henry narrows his eyes. He often regrets that Thomas wasn’t born first but when he says things like that, so very earnestly, Henry sometimes thinks it’s a relief he wasn’t.

‘The expedition,’ Henry says, ‘is the priority. Not your brother.’

‘ _I know_ ,’ Thomas says. ‘But—’

Henry closes his eyes tightly, prays for patience. ‘I won’t talk about this, Thomas.’

Thomas scowls but he sits down and they speak of the expedition. Henry hates that his health is so poor that he cannot undertake the voyage himself. His life has become full of frustrations like this and he can’t understand how he could have been so strong once and now live as a tortured creature in the prison of his own flesh.

Thomas squirms in his seat, brow furrowing, and blurts out, ‘You can’t think Harry would actually—’

‘Thomas,’ Henry says.

The problem is that Henry doesn’t know what Harry’s capable of. All his life, his eldest son has defied his expectations. A son was meant to love and honour their father but Harry never has, not even when he was babe, so there is nothing to hold Harry back, nothing to guard Henry against the most grievous treason of all.

‘I said I won’t speak of it but, as you insist on speaking on it, I will not see him. There is no need for me to do so. Now, we can either continue to speak of the expedition or you can leave.’

Thomas frowns quite severely at him and Henry waits.

‘Mother would be upset with you,’ Thomas says.

‘Joanna understands,’ Henry starts to say and makes a fatal mistake.

‘Not Joanna,’ Thomas says. ‘ _Mother._ The woman who bore your children. Your first wife. You remember her, don’t you?’

Thomas has always been overly sensitive about his mother. Henry sighs, tries to gather his patience and strength. He doesn’t understand why Thomas continually betrays him on this one thing – they are so alike, he and Thomas, that this one point of difference between them is bewildering and infuriating.

‘Don’t be so belligerent and grow some sense,’ he says. ‘You know I haven’t forgotten your mother.’

‘Well, then,’ Thomas says. ‘You’d know she’d be upset about this.’

Henry tries to conjure Mary. It’s become harder and harder as time has gone on. After her death, he saw her everywhere and now he only thinks of her in bland words. _Good woman, pious, kind, gentle._ He thought that when he was dying, she would come back to him in greater clarity but he only remembers the shape of her face because it is the same shape as Harry’s.

She would grieve to see them like this, with Blanche gone and Harry behaving so poorly that Henry might be forced to have him executed.

‘She wouldn’t recognise Harry,’ Henry says.

Thomas stands up in a hurry, thrusting his chair violently back. ‘Why not? I do, John does, Humphrey does. It’s only you who can’t see that he’s _your_ son, just as he always has been.’

Before Henry can think, before he can halt Thomas and _explain,_ the door has slammed shut and Thomas is gone. Henry’s hands are trembling. He reaches out for the cup of wine on the table beside him, misjudges and knocks it to the floor. Dark liquid spills over the rug at his feet, staining it. One of his servants darts forward, bending down to set it to rights. Henry turns his eyes to the window, watches the treetops sway. It is summer outside but he feels cold.

*

Joanna finds him alone, still seated by the window and lays her hands on his shoulders. He places his hand over hers, feels her fingers curl around his as she bends her head to kiss his cheek. He wishes for a moment too long that she is Mary, come to tell him what to do with Harry. Mary always knew how to manage Harry and how to explain him to Henry.

‘What’s that face for?’ Joanna says. 

She straightens the seat Thomas knocked askew, pulls it closer to Henry and sits.

‘Harry,’ he says. ‘He’s turning his brothers against me.’

‘Strange, that,’ she says, ‘given he’s not seen them yet.’

‘No doubt they’ve read his letter,’ Henry says. ‘Everyone else has. And Thomas was in here, defending him. _Thomas_.’

Joanna is silent for a long moment, her short fingers stretched out over her knees, the gown beneath is made of lilac velvet embroidered in silver thread. It’s not a good colour on her, too pale, but she says it makes her feel like she is a spring flower and he can hardly talk, she’s seen his houppelande embroidered with toads.

‘They were close once,’ Joanna says. ‘It might be that he doesn’t want his own advancement to come at Harry’s cost.’

‘At Harry’s _cost_? It’s not Harry who lives in fear of his life because of an overambitious son who can’t wait until his own father is—’

He breaks off, cheeks hot and breath struggling. He clutches at his chest and curses his useless body. If he were well, he would be warlike and fierce and Harry would not dare to turn traitor. Henry shudders and coughs, tries to drag air into his struggling lungs but can only wheeze, his breath whistling. Joanna is on her feet, her hands on his back, trying to urge him to breathe. Tears run down his cheeks.

The fit eventually passes. Joanna stays where she is, lifting a cup of wine to his mouth. He swallows, feeling the liquid slip down his burning throat.

‘Do you think Harry is not afraid?’ she says. ‘I thought he seemed desperate.’

Henry snorts but doesn’t dare try to speak. He rests his hand over Joanna’s as she lifts the wine to his mouth for him to drink again. He feels so tired.

‘I can deal with Harry,’ she says. ‘You don’t need to see him.’

Henry thinks again of Mary, of Harry wearing her face and profaning it with his treasons. He doesn’t believe Thomas – Mary wouldn’t recognise Harry as he is now, except as a mirror for her own face, and she would disown him. But she was a good woman, a kind woman – she would try to understand Harry before she repudiated him. He will see Harry, then, in respect to her.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I’ll see him.’

*

Harry enters the hall with his retinue and Henry can do nothing but stare. His son holds himself straight and tall, his body is slender but taut with muscle. He is dressed in a glittering blue silk gown, a gold SS collar wrapped around his arm. Henry remembers that until he was thirteen, Harry would speak to his shoes, shoulders hunched up, and lost every time he sparred with Thomas. Henry remembers how furious his son’s meekness used to make him.

Harry turns his head, speaks a few words to his companions and then approaches the dais. Henry, aware he is slumped in the chair, makes an effort to straighten his body, rolling his aching shoulders and trying to press his spine flush against the back of the throne. It hurts too much.

Harry’s skin is browned from days in the sun, hunting and campaigning, and the scar on his cheek is as ugly as ever. His gown glitters, Henry sees, not because it is worked with fine jewels or gold thread but because it is full of eyelet holes, each with a needle hanging from them. Henry doesn’t know what it means, why Harry would order a gown like this, but all he sees are dozens of small wounds on his son’s body, the knives that made them still there.

Henry swallows, Harry bows low.

Henry makes him wait. It is necessary. Richard would sit enthroned and gaze out upon his hall to make those his eyes fell on kneel in homage to their king. But this is different. Henry is only making a disobedient prince perform obeisance to the king he has betrayed. Henry must teach Harry his place again – show him that it is Henry who is king and not Harry. Not yet and maybe not ever.

He holds out his hand, knows that most would recoil – his skin is covered in scabs and sores, reeking of the ointment that eases the itching – but Harry does not and dutifully presses his lips to the back of Henry’s hand.

‘Rise,’ Henry says.

Harry climbs to his feet. Henry studies his son. He still has Mary’s long face, her sharp cheekbones, full lips, and her dark, dark eyes that dart up to meet Henry’s gaze.

What should Henry do? What would any king do against such a threat? He must protect himself and his line – but this danger comes from within his line, his son, his heir. He knows Arundel’s counsel: _he is unclean, unworthy of your love and the crown. You can save him, perhaps, if he is willing to be taught. You must correct him. Have him flogged. Imprisoned._ Henry has tried and tried to correct the faults in Harry and always failed. His son has grown greedy with ambition and power. If Henry cannot correct him, what else can he do but respond to a threat?

‘Most redoubted lord and father, I have come—’

Henry raises his hand and Harry cuts himself off, faltering.

‘I did not give you leave to speak,’ Henry says.

‘No, your grace, I am sorry,’ Harry says and his eyes turn down, his breath becomes quick.

Henry is silent, watching Harry’s chest heave and the needles on his gown sway. He is wearing red beneath it, Henry realises, and the impression that his son is wounded all over grows stronger. Sometimes it seems even the needles are bloodied. Henry’s hands clench down around the arms of his throne.

‘You wish to defend yourself?’ he says.

Harry’s eyes meet his again. ‘If you will hear me speak, your grace, I will.’

Henry’s jaw clenches yet he doesn’t know why Harry’s words annoy him. He looks away from Harry, to the lower end of the hall where Harry’s retinue is waiting for him. Henry’s eyes are still sharp. They are not armed and that should comfort him but it doesn’t. Why has his son brought so many men with him? What does he hope to imply with this display of support and with his wounded clothing?

He sees Thomas, with his own retinue of men, waiting, and Humphrey beside him. Humphrey is a good son but he adores Harry above all else. He wonders who Humphrey would choose, if it came down to it – his father or his brother? Henry can trust Thomas to support him but not Humphrey.

Joanna is seated beside Henry, her face impassive and hands clasped neatly in her lap. He knows she will support him but she will be fair.

‘Not here,’ Henry says and raises his hand, gesturing his servants to come and attend him.

They will speak in his secret chamber, away from prying eyes. If this goes badly, he doesn’t want to face a riot. Harry, to his surprise, looks relieved. Thomas steps forward, Humphrey close behind him, obviously intending to follow.

‘No,’ Henry says. ‘You are not to come.’

They want to bear witness but he cannot rely on them. He lets his eyes search over the hall and names Joanna to come with him, and two other lords he trusts cannot be swayed by riches and Harry’s words.

*

His chair is set down and the servants leave, the door shutting behind them. Henry curls his hands around the arms of his chair and breathes in. Even in the warm glow cast by the fire and the candles, Harry seems pale, his eyes very dark. He reminds Henry of a corpse and he remembers Harry, lying limp and broken in his bed after Shrewsbury. _Weakness_ , Henry thinks, _sentiment._

‘Well?’ he says. ‘Speak your mind.’

It is as if his voice severs muscle and sinew. Harry drops, the crack of his knees hitting the stone floor so loud. Henry flinches and wonders if his son has shattered both kneecaps in his dramatic gesture.

‘Most redoubted lord and father, I’ve come here as your son and as your liegeman,’ Harry says. He takes a breath, his throat working. ‘I know what you think of me. That I’ve conspired against you. That I am a threat to you and your crown.’

His voice is quiet and faltering but the words are enunciated so carefully it is as if they have been carved from ice. Henry leans back in his chair, full of doubt and mistrust. This is the beginnings of a pretty speech, something rehearsed, to save Harry’s skin. He doesn’t mean one single word of what he’s saying.

‘But you should know,’ Harry says, lifting his gaze to Henry’s face, ‘or, at least, I hope you do, that if any man threatened you, I’d see it as my duty to stop him and punish him. Even to the cost of my life. _I am your son_.’

His eyes, dark and limpid, stare back at Henry. He seems to be waiting for something but Henry can’t possibly comprehend what. Harry lowers his head again, a tear streaks down his cheek and falls to the floor.

He swallows, clears his throat. Henry senses Joanna move uneasily beside him.

‘I would rather die,’ Harry says, ‘than have you live in fear me. Therefore, ease your heart, my lord, and do it.’

 _Do what?_ Henry wonders. Harry fumbles at his belt, his downturned face full of pain, and unsheathes a dagger. Henry recoils. His son means to slay him. The blade gleams bright, its edges sharp. Henry never thought to look if Harry was armed. Joanna lets out a sharp intake of breath and he thinks, _not in front of her, don’t include her in this._

The dagger lays flat on Harry’s outstretched hands.

‘This morning,’ Harry says quickly, frustration beginning to bleed into his voice, ‘I was shriven and I received the Eucharist. I am ready. End this. Please.’

Henry stares at him. He doesn’t understand. Harry takes a sharp breath, his hands closing around the blade.

‘Harry,’ Joanna says. ‘ _Harry_ —’

Henry wants her to be quiet, to let him _think._ This doesn’t make sense – Harry should be trying to kill him or making some lying speech about how faithful and loyal he is. He starts at the feel of his son’s fingers taking his hand and straightening it, the coldness of the dagger-hilt placed into the cradle of his palm. Harry’s hand wraps around Henry’s, makes him curl his fingers around the hilt and raise it. Henry still doesn’t understand.

‘My life is not so dear that I should cause displeasure for one day of my life.’

Harry draws the dagger to his breast and Henry has fought enough battles and jousts to know that the point is pressed against the place where the blade can easily be driven down between the ribs to pierce the heart and stop it.

_His son’s heart._

He hears Joanna saying his name, _Henry, Henry,_ and shakes his head. Harry is looking up at him, his face set in an expression that is horrifically reminiscent of Harry as a child, small and desperate to please.

‘I would forgive you my murder,’ Harry says and closes his terrible eyes. ‘I would, I do.’

His hands drop from Henry’s, hang limply at his side, and his breath comes harshly before it settles, as if he has made his peace. Another tear skates down his cheek.

‘Please,’ Harry says, almost begging. ‘End this.’

Henry’s hand shakes around the dagger. He can see where the point has cut Harry’s gown. He pulls his hand back and Harry’s eyes flutter open, the dark lashes wet with tears. Mary’s eyes stare back at Henry, empty of everything, even fear.

‘I can’t,’ Henry says. ‘I can’t, I can’t. I won’t.’

He throws the dagger away, hears it clatter across the stone floor and it isn’t far enough. If he had the strength, he would take it and run until he could cast it into the Thames where it will be forever lost. How could Harry ever think Henry could kill him?

Harry is still staring at him, a slight furrow between his brows. Henry glances towards Joanna for help but she is silent, her hand clasped over her mouth and eyes filled with tears. Henry reaches for Harry, pulls him close and holds him.

‘My son, _my son,_ ’ Henry says.

He holds Harry’s cheeks in his hands, the bones sharp beneath his fingers and his palm hiding the scar, and kisses Harry.

‘I see you now, I _see_ you. My son, I see you – your faithfulness, your humility. This has ended, yes? You will be my loyal son and I will not distrust you, no matter what stories I hear—’

‘But—’ Harry says, the furrow deepening.

‘But what?’ Henry says. ‘I see _you._ I will not slay you. _I will not._ ’

Henry tries to smile at Harry but something is wrong. Harry is too still, his body too stiff. He isn’t resisting Henry’s embrace but he isn’t returning it either. Not when Henry begins to weep or when he stops, exhausted and full of pain.

But he can’t let go of Harry. Not when he’s like this. Henry doesn’t know what’s wrong with Harry or how he can make it right but he cannot let go of Harry. Richard would know what’s wrong with him, Henry thinks and hears the echo of Richard’s voice, distant and faint, _I loved him better than you ever did._

Maybe it’s true, maybe Henry has never loved Harry as much as he deserved but he _sees_ Harry now and still loves him.

He cups the back of Harry’s skull, feels the fragile curve of it. When Harry was a baby, Mary would put him in Henry’s arms and Henry would be terrified, afraid he’d drop his son and his head would crack like an egg. He never thought Harry would live. It feels as though he has been waiting all his life for Harry to die only to find that he has grown into a man who will outlive his father.

Very, very slowly, Harry lowers his head to rest the sharp point of his chin against Henry’s shoulder.

*

Henry releases Harry eventually. There is something wrong with his son, something terribly wrong, but he cannot work out what it is and so he cannot hope to cure it. There will be others who are better suited to that role, others who can take better care of Harry and it is best to let Harry go to them.

Harry helps him back into his chair. Henry cannot comprehend how he has become so weak and Harry so strong. It feels like Harry was only a little baby only a moment ago.

‘We must wait for parliament,’ he says, ‘to, uh, pass judgement on – on the charges against you. And – if men have defamed you, they will answer for it then. It is best to let justice be seen to be done, you understand.’

The words seem thick and useless. Harry only blinks and inclines his head. Henry’s hands twitch on his lap. He wants to draw his son down onto his knee, wishes to wrap a blanket around him and pretend the world is small and they are safe from evil. He wishes that the door will open and Mary will enter, ready to make peace between them and to make Harry happy again. But Mary is eight years dead.

‘Harry,’ he says.

Harry raises his head and Henry wishes there was something in his face beside this terrible nothingness.

‘I do love you,’ Henry says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, your grace,’ Harry says too smoothly for it to be anything but a lie.

**Author's Note:**

>  **The dialogue between Henry and Harry:** what Henry and Harry are purported to have said to each other at this meeting is recorded in _The First English Life of Henry the Fifth_ and I’ve used that as a base for the dialogue I’ve written. The dialogue quoted in _First English Life_ is very long and formal, appearing more like a speech than natural dialogue (particularly in light of the emotion I wanted to put behind their words), and wouldn’t fit with my own style of writing or feel “natural”. So I worked and worked at adapting it to get it shorter, more emotional and more like my own dialogue. 
> 
> **Thomas’s expedition:** the Armagnac-Burgundian civil war in France saw both sides reaching out to England for assistance. In 1411 Harry preferred to side with Burgundy, perhaps seeing it as a way to garner assistance in recovering the lands England was to hold per the Treaty of Brétigny (1360) and, at the very least, to prevent Burgundy from attacking the English-held Calais. But by the end of 1411, Henry was governing as king again and instead allied with the Armagnacs, with the intention of leading an army himself to support their claims. His increasingly poor health prevented him from leading it himself and he delegated command to Thomas, his second son in what has been seen as a slight against Harry.
> 
>  **Harry’s letter:** from the second half of 1411 on, Harry seems to have been firmly on the outs with his father, a situation that may have worsened if Harry really did ask his father to abdicate in December – certainly, it seems Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, unsuccessfully urged Henry to abdicate in Harry’s favour. There were strong rumours that Harry was intending to overthrow Henry and claim the throne himself and Harry responded to this through a public letter that firmly denied these reports. It is possible that these rumours were nothing but an attempt to alienate Harry from his father and if they were, it certainly seemed to work.
> 
>  **Harry’s clothes:** according to _First English Life_ , Harry really did wear a blue gown full of eyelet holes with needles hanging from them and the Lancastrian SS collar around his arm (though I added the red undergown). Although clearly symbolic (or maybe just an odd fashion trend), the exact meaning is now lost. Chris Given-Wilson suggests it was a disguise and Anne Curry suggests it indicated that Harry was an “unfinished product”. My own view – at least from Henry’s perspective – is that they indicate Harry is wounded by the loss of his father’s trust/love and the rumours.
> 
>  **Sons present:** Thomas was most likely present as he was shortly after promoted to Duke of Clarence by Henry while I considered Humphrey’s presence a safe bet because he seemed to spend most of his father’s reign with Henry. John was probably in the north of England.
> 
>  **Outcome:** despite the tearful scene of reconciliation, little changed for Harry. He remained in London until 11 July but didn’t witness any court business including Thomas's promotion to the dukedom of Clarence on 9 July. The charges against Harry continued to be investigated and he wasn’t cleared until 21 October. He came to London in September again, perhaps to put pressure on Henry once more, and according to one report, an assassin was found hiding in his bedroom (the assassin claimed that Henry Beaufort hired him but this almost certainly was a cover story). As depicted in the story, Henry promised that those who defamed Harry would be dully investigated and punished – but only in parliament, which was to be held in February 1413 but was postponed due to Henry’s ill health and then cancelled altogether when Henry died on March 20. There are some reports of a deathbed reconciliation between Henry and Harry. 
> 
> **Sources**  
>  Christopher Allmand, _Henry V_ (Yale University Press, 1997)  
> Teresa Cole, Henry V: _The Life of the Warrior King & the Battle of Agincourt_ (Amberley, 2016)  
> Anne Curry, _The Battle of Agincourt: Sources and Interpretations_ (Boydell, 2009)  
> Anne Curry, _Henry V: Playboy Prince to Warrior King_ (Penguin, 2018)  
> Chris Given-Wilson, _Henry IV_ (Yale University Press, 2017)  
> C. L. Kingsford, ed. _The First English Life of King Henry the Fifth_ (Oxford, 1922)  
> Katherine J. Lewis, _Kingship and Masculinity in Late Medieval England_ (Routledge, 2013)  
> John Matusiak, _Henry V_ (Routledge, 2013)  
> Ian Mortimer, _The Fears of Henry IV_ (Vintage, 2008)  
> A. R. Myers, ed. _English Historical Documents: 1327-1485_ (Routledge, 1969)


End file.
